


Love It All

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Awkwardness, Banter, Conversations, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Sunglasses, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:50:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the fluff, seriously! I’m pretty sure there’s no plot here except for some wistful pining (Michael), a surprise visit (James), a very purple rental car (still James), a lack of communication (both of them), and mutual admissions of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love It All

**Author's Note:**

> Random fic is random! Title from the Kooks song of that name.

It’s been a long and complicated day, even though it’s really only the fading end of a weary springtime afternoon. Too many interviews. Not enough break time between them. And not enough coffee in the world.

All very friendly interviews, of course, and honestly Michael’s still thrilled and amazed every time someone genuinely wants to talk to him; when did he stop being obscure, and start being famous, again? And he’s grateful for that miraculous turn of events, he is, every single day. Every single damn minute.

But at this particular minute, he's very tired, and although he does love the nice suits—and he does, he enjoys the feeling of expensive fabric, and the knowledge that he looks good, and who _doesn't_ like all those things?—he really would also like to change out of said nice suit and put on old and comfortable jeans and sit around doing nothing for a while, back at the hotel. And his face is a little tired from smiling so broadly for so long.

And he misses James. James can smile forever, at everyone in the world, and not get tired.

It's some sort of superhuman ability. Michael's convinced of that. Of course, he's pretty much been convinced that James isn't human ever since the first day they'd met, years ago, when James had smiled up at him over a cup of coffee and said, cheerfully, "Good morning, oh, you look cold, and I'm sorry, they're already out of coffee over at catering services, but if you want you can have mine, if you don’t mind sharing, I don’t, so go on," and Michael had, on the spot, fallen head over heels in love, because James _isn't_ human and obviously has the uncanny ability to make the entire world adore him.

That feeling's never gone away. It sits there gleefully occupying his heart, and giving the occasional twinge any time he catches a glimpse of curling hair, or a shade of blue that's almost the color of those improbable eyes, or an accent like the smooth burn of Scottish whiskey.

Unfortunately, James _does_ smile at the entire world, so Michael can never tell whether James is happy to see him because James just likes people, or because James likes _him_.

This really isn't the time for those thoughts. James isn't even here. James is a continent away, back in London, no doubt, busy with his own life, because he _has_ a life, and isn’t spending his evenings sitting on a hotel balcony contemplating the dazzling streets of Los Angeles and how much friendlier they’d be with a familiar accent at his side and whether he should send a text message just to say hi.

He hadn’t, the previous night, but only because he’d sent one the night before— _hey, look, you’re on my tv, Mr Tumnus, love the goat legs!_ and James had replied _I miss you too dear but don’t really want to know about you loving my goat legs_ and Michael had laughed out loud and then panicked, considering certain thoughts he’d been having in the shower a few hours earlier and wondering whether James could possibly read minds via text message, and then hadn’t answered because he didn’t know what to say.

James had called him _dear_. In a text message. Teasing. Had to be. As if James would ever say that, and mean it, for him.

And therefore there's no reason he should be imagining the scent of that stupid apple shampoo, or wistfully glancing through the crowd for a head that's shorter than the rest. And he's giving himself a headache with all the plaintive longing. Time to go home, or at least what passes for home, as far as hotels can.

First, he needs a cab.

So he steps out the door, putting on his sunglasses against the unhelpful glare. And, while thus preoccupied, runs directly into the object of all his desires.

“Ow!”

“Sorry—oh god— _James_?”

“Hi!” James says, apparently deciding to ignore the near-death-by-trampling. “Need a lift?”

“…what? Wait, how are you even here?” He’s grinning, and he knows it, probably too widely, startling the passersby, but. But James. _Here_.

Suddenly all the sunlight feels celebratory, instead of blinding, against his skin.

“I got an earlier flight.” James tosses his car keys into the air, catches them. “Finished all the interviews, back home—” By which he means London, of course; not that either of them technically has much of a home, with all the time they spend traveling, filming, publicizing. But they do both keep flats in the city, and it’s nice to pretend.

Treacherously, Michael’s tired brain suggests that he wouldn’t mind having a home. With James in it. Smiling at him, in the morning. No, he informs those thoughts. No. Just because James has appeared out of nowhere to find him, like an embodiment of one of Michael’s favorite fantasies, that doesn’t mean that James would like to wake up in bed with him, under lazy late-morning sunlight, and let Michael feed him pancakes and coffee.

So his fantasies are kind of pathetically domestic. But they’re _his_ , and no one else has to know.

“—and I thought, well, you must be done about now, and if you were, you might want company. Or at least need a ride. So…McAvoy transportation, at your service.”

Oh, god, he’d quite like James to be at his service—No. _No_. He has to stop thinking these things, right the hell now. Instead, he looks at James, standing there on the concrete stairs under the interplay of shadows and sunlight, and then has to back up one step, to keep himself from reaching out to hug, or touch, or hold the hand that’s now playing, so damn temptingly, with the car keys.

Maybe one more step back. Just in case. “I do remember the last time you tried to operate an automobile. Have you figured out which way is left and which way is right, yet?”

“That wasn’t my fault! I hardly ever drive over here, and American cars are very much wrong, and you don’t even own a car, anyway, so you can’t complain, and also those are terribly unattractive sunglasses, just so you know.”

“How’re my eyewear choices related to your driving ability, again?”

“They’re not, I just wanted to make certain someone told you how awful they were. I’m being a good friend.”

“By insulting me?” They’re walking in unison, now, down the steps. Easily, despite all the differences in height and leg length. As everything always is easy, when he’s next to James. Just…comfortable. Like the sunlight.

“By, um, pointing out your flaws. Kindly. Oh, come on, you can totally do the same thing for me, whenever.”

James doesn’t _have_ any flaws. Or, well, he probably does, he _is_ a terrible driver, and he’s miserable in the mornings if he doesn’t have any caffeine, and his hair stands up whimsically in the wind and then gets stuck in his mouth, and Michael loves him for all of those things.

Something bumps happily against his leg. He looks down. “Wait…is that your—that’s the bag you take on the plane, isn’t it? The one that looks like a purse? When you said you got an earlier flight…you meant you just now got here, didn’t you?”

“Um.” James stops walking, at that. “Yes. And it does not. And the actual overnight bag is in the car, but I didn’t know how long you’d be, and this one had books in it. And maybe.”

Michael stops walking, too.  Because the first thing James had wanted to do, arriving in Los Angeles, was to come find him. “Did you—do you even have a hotel reservation? For tonight?”

“Well…I couldn’t remember which hotel you were staying in and—”

“You wanted to stay with me? I mean—” He has to edit that sentence, hastily. “In my hotel, I mean. Where I am. Staying.” Oh, god. “You know what I mean.”

James starts laughing, stops, looks at him, thoughtfully. “Yes?”

“Yes…wait…which part of that are you agreeing to, again?”

“Yes, I wanted to stay with you.”

“Um…then it’s the Hilton…but there might not be a lot of rooms left, there’s some sort of convention going on and—what?”

“…oh. Never mind, then. Also, this is my car.”

“You rented a purple car? And…wait. Please.” James now sounds a little—not sad, no, that can’t be right. That _isn’t_ right: James shouldn’t be sad. Not if Michael can help it.

“It’s not—well, not _really_ —all right, I suppose it is. Purple is fashionable. Or something. Did you not want a ride, then?”

“No! I mean yes. I mean…I don’t like your sunglasses, either, can you take them off?”

“What? Why?”

“Because I want you to look at me?”

“Still asking why.”

“Because I think you’re angry with me and I want to see your eyes?”

“I’m not angry with you.”

“Then…because you have beautiful eyes?”

This gets James to laugh, even though the amusement seems a little forced. “Do you say that to every person who picks you up off the street, then?”

“No. Only you.” He’d meant it to be more of a joke; but he does mean it, and the words come out sincere. “Come on, please. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be; you didn’t do anything.” But James pulls off his sunglasses, and blinks, in the golden burn of the falling sunlight and the glittering reflections, light crackling up around them from car doors, the sides of buildings, rooftop panes of glass. “Happy?”

“Um…no. You’re not smiling.”

“You can’t be happy if I’m not smiling?”

Very simple, this answer. No thought required at all. “No.”

James blinks again. Not because of the coruscating Southern California light, this time. Stares at him, in the shadow of the expectantly eavesdropping purple car. “You—but—I—wait, you said—I think I’m confused.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

“I think you— _what_?”

“I just said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Yes!”

“Can we…pretend I didn’t?”

“No!”

“Please?”

“No. Also, you _think_? Shouldn’t you, y’know, _know_ something like that?”

“Um…”

“I mean, _I_ do.”

“What?”

“Except you stepped on my foot, and then you looked at me like you were afraid of me, and then you told me that you didn’t think there’d be room for me at your hotel. So I’m not sure I want to be in love with you, anymore. It’s kind of painful, to be honest.”

“You…what?”

“Which part did you have questions about?”

“I want you to stay with me. _Really_ with me. If you still want to. Please. I love you.”

“Are you sure about that, this time?”

Michael opens his mouth. Closes it. He’s not used to that sharp an edge, so dangerously buried in that luxuriously-textured voice. It feels wrong, and steals away all the air in his lungs, the shocked sensation of missing a step on a formerly-familiar staircase and not knowing how to catch himself on the way down.

The only thing he can say is, “Yes. I am. I love you.”

James doesn’t say anything, so he keeps talking, in the hope that one of the words will magically turn into solid ground beneath his feet. “And I’m sorry. And you do have beautiful eyes. I meant that when I said it, you know. And I wasn’t being afraid of you, I was afraid I was going to do something stupid like kiss you in public, the second you said hello, because I’m very tired and you were right there and I want you, you don’t know how badly I want you, and you made fun of my sunglasses and you smiled at me and you should be smiling always. And, um. I’m also sorry I stepped on your foot?”

James contemplates this explosion of words for a minute, expression unreadable. Probably trying to make some sense out of them, which might be a lost cause. “So…I’m pretty sure my foot will survive, but it thanks you for caring. And…you wanted to kiss me? In public? Because I said hello to you?”

“I want to kiss you when you say _anything_. Or when you don’t say anything. Or always. And I love you. And your foot. Um, both your feet. And the rest of you. Is this helping, at all?”

“Yes,” James says, and that expression _is_ readable, now, and it’s James laughing, amused, relieved, elated, and Michael wants to smile because James laughing is irresistible, but he’s not quite sure he can let himself believe it, yet. “Yes, of course it’s helping, you’re amazing, and I love you, and we’re very much going back to your hotel now. And finding room for me in _your_ room. That’s why I’m here, you know.”

“Because you’ve been hiding some secret desire to share a generic hotel room with me?” When he inches closer, and puts his arms around James, slowly because he’s still figuring out that he can, the summer-sky eyes light up, all excited, and Michael _knows_ that that’s excitement because he’s feeling it too, fireworks and champagne sparkling under his skin.

“Yes, actually. But also because you never answered my text message and I missed you and I love you. And if we go back to the hotel you can kiss me whenever you want.”

“We might never leave, then. And…about your text message…you know when I said I love you with goat legs, I meant I love you always. And also…dear?”

“I love you always, too. And that might be my favorite sentence of yours ever. And, um, about that, I sort of meant it, but I didn’t think you’d know I meant it, so either way I’d be safe, and you’d think it was funny, and I like making you smile, too, and it’s not as if I ever seriously had plans to call you that out loud anyway, and yes, I know I was thinking about it way too much, but it was important, because it was you, and—you can stop laughing now. Really, any time.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”


End file.
